Inertia
by Quartic Moose
Summary: A collection of ficlets, drabbles, and one-shots (an assortment of Flash flash-fic, if you will), mostly family-centric. Now up: Parole. Henry struggles to adjust to life on the Outside, and finds nothing so hard to navigate as interpersonal relationships.
1. Keraunopathy

Title: Keraunopathy

No specific spoilers. Iris POV

Summary: It's raining outside, and Iris is pensive

* * *

><p>Most days, Iris was too grateful that Barry was alive, and awake, to worry about his health.<p>

Most days, she was content to hang out with her pseudo-brother and listen to him take off on science-geek tangents. Barry had always been an open book; he wore his heart on his sleeve, and when he was passionate about something, his whole face would become animated as he shared his wonder with the world, and Iris loved him for it.

Most days, Iris could revel in having Barry back in her life, after waiting in uncertainty for nine months - nine months!

Today was not one of those days.

Today had started out gloomy and gray, which from the get-go was a major downer. But as the evening wore on, an autumn thunderstorm had started up. Iris watched the lightning with cold dread in her stomach, and remembered everything she wished she hadn't learned.

Iris was no science wiz. That was all Barry's area of expertise, and she was lucky she'd had his help tutoring her in high school chem. But she was good at research, at finding things out. That was one of the reasons Barry had recommended she take Journalism as an elective (that, and he'd said it would be _fun_, which she still wasn't sold on). So when Barry was lying (dying) in a hospital bed _after being struck by lightning_, she did some research. She wanted to know they were doing everything they could for him, wanted to know what to expect.

A lot of the stuff she'd dug up was full of too much medical jargon to make sense to her - _keraunopathy_ and _Lichtenberg figures_ and _electroporation_ - and more than once she'd caught herself thinking that she'd ask Barry to clarify a point as soon as he got back from work, and then her whole reality would come crashing down around her again.

What she could make heads or tails of, was not good.

Wikipedia had an entire page devoted to lightning injuries, that spelled it out in layman's terms. _"Long-term injuries are usually neurological in nature, including __memory deficit__, __sleep disturbance__, __chronic pain__, and chronic __dizziness."_ The 'delayed' symptoms were what worried her the most. Because Barry _said_ he felt fine now, but some symptoms - like cataracts - could develop over a year after an otherwise uneventful recovery. And being in a coma, with multiple heart failures, was not what Iris would call uneventful.

Most days, his big geeky science brain was just as overflowing with facts as it ever was, which made the thought of brain damage laughable. But as NOAA pointed out in greater detail, neurological damage didn't have to mean a dip in I.Q. points.

So while most days Iris was grateful, and happy, and willing to help Barry get his life back to normal, other days she kept a worried eye out for: Distractibility. Inattentiveness or forgetfulness. Problems multitasking. Slower reaction time. Headaches which do not resolve with usual over-the-counter-meds. Chronic pain. Self-isolation. Difficulty carrying on a conversation. Depression. Personality changes.

She tried to act like how she normally would have, before the lightning strike. She didn't draw undue attention to Barry's lapses in attention, forgotten appointments, his headaches. He had a lot of catching up to do, a lot going on, and she tried to give him the space he needed to find his feet again.

Barry was keeping things from her. He'd become evasive, and at times secretive. He always seemed like he had something he wanted to say, but he never said it. She knew all this because that boy had no poker face whatsoever (which made it absolutely hilarious in the most tragically ironic way whenever he decided he needed to sing along to Lady Gaga). She tried to make sure he knew he had a support network he could count on, that she would be there for him no matter what, but more and more it seemed like he was pulling away.

_Forgetfulness. Self-isolation. Personality changes…Depression?_

In the present, Iris curled up on her bed, wrapped in the warmest, softest blanket she owned, and shivered as the thunderstorm beat angrily at the window.


	2. Fighting Chance

Title: Fighting Chance

Takes place anytime after 1x02, The Fastest Man Alive

Summary: Joe has a thing or two he'd like to teach Barry. Barry's more or less willing to learn.

* * *

><p>"Are you ready to get started?"<p>

Nodding, Barry walked with some trepidation onto the mats in one corner of the precinct's gym. Across from him, Joe was dressed similarly to Barry in dark sweatpants and a loose t-shirt. It was early, and a Wednesday, and they had the space to themselves.

Joe spoke authoritatively, the same _don't-bother-arguing-with-me _tone he'd taken when he'd told Barry to _meet me in the gym tomorrow morning at six for practice. "_Barry, if you're going to go out there and do the things you are meant to do, you're going to have to learn some self-defense."

And wow, okay, that really wasn't what Barry had been expecting. "You've been so reluctant to let me do this, I didn't think you'd want to..." he trailed off, unable to think of a way to end that sentence that didn't make it sound like he doubted Joe. He knew he had Joe's support, now, but this felt dangerously close to _encouragement, _which was a complete 180-degree turnaround from Joe's initial reaction.

"I want you _safe_. That means knowing how to take care of yourself. Your strongest defense is your speed, your ability to dodge whatever's thrown your way. But Barry, what if someone gets lucky, and you get knocked off your feet? That's all it would take to neutralize your speed, and then what are you left with?" - Which, yeah, made Barry _sooo_ glad Joe hadn't been around to see his fight with Danton Black, he worried enough as it was - "So, today, you are going to learn to fall. And then, you are going to learn how to get up again."

"And then...?" Now that he knew why he was here, he was hoping for a little more than _falling and getting up again_, which he'd had pretty well figured out since he was a toddler.

But Joe only shrugged, "That's all we'll have time for today, I expect. But next week, you are going to learn how to stand so that - " Joe reached over and pushed _hard_ at Barry's shoulder, who took a small step back to keep from tipping over "- you aren't so easy to knock over to begin with. Now, come stand next to me."

Barry did as he asked, startling Joe by being _prompt_. Joe swatted his shoulder in retaliation, and got down to business.

"Bend your knees. Tuck your chin - you don't want your head to hit the floor. Roll with the motion, and slap both hands to the mat at the same time as you do - it helps disperse your momentum"

He demonstrated, falling smoothly backwards, his arms impacting the mat to either side with a loud _smack_.

When Barry tried it, it felt clumsy and slow. But he got up and tried it again.

- "Don't catch yourself on your hands, you'll injure your wrists. Just slap as you come down."

And again.

- "You're still slapping too soon - the timing is key."

And again. He was getting increasingly frustrated, feeling more like a klutz than he ever had since he'd woken up as the Fastest Man Alive. He should be better at this - it was simple physics. A single object in free-fall, a constant rate of acceleration. He could apply the Second Law of Motion, that the net force applied equaled the product of his body's mass and acceleration, though that wouldn't be as helpful as calculating what the _impulse_ would be, given that this was essentially an impact problem. _Impulse: when a force acts over an interval of time, measured in kilogram-meters per second._ If he increased the duration of the impact, he'd decrease the impulse, which was likely the objective in 'learning to fall the right way.' He could figure out the ideal impact time, given the known quantities of his body's mass, the rate of acceleration due to gravity, his height...

"You're running math problems in your head, aren't you?"

"Well..." No point in denying it; Joe knew him too well.

"You just need to let go, Barry. You trust me, right?"

"Yeah, of course." He shrugged; he thought that was well-established, though he didn't see how it applied, since Joe wasn't offering to catch him or anything.

"Then trust me when I say, it's not going to hurt if you let yourself fall. That's what the mat is for. You aren't going to get it perfectly the first time, or the third time, or the twelfth time. That's why we practice. You've still got mental brakes on, holding you back. Just let go, and fall."

Barry took a couple of deep breaths to clear the formulae from his head. Now that it had been pointed out to him, he could see how his stiffness and clumsiness came from his body instinctively resisting the fall. He tipped backwards once again, making a conscious effort to remain relaxed and loose - and this time he could feel the difference it made, falling smoothly and evenly. Lying flat on his back, he grinned up at Joe, who smiled back at him, filling Barry with a warm glow of pride. And then Joe said, "Better. Now do it again."

After two hours of repetition, Barry could finally fall backwards, forwards, and sideways to Joe's satisfaction, and he progressed to showing Barry how to regain his feet quickly. Joe insisted that Barry do the exercises slowly (relatively speaking), so that Joe could see that he was doing it _correctly_.

"You want to practice this until it becomes muscle memory, and that means you want to practice it _right_. With your speed, you could get back up in a fraction of a second, but just because you can do it faster than anyone else, doesn't mean you can't do it better. Speed isn't the answer to everything. You gotta be smart, and efficient, and _then_ you've got to be fast. And if you're smart and efficient, your fastest will be even faster."

That... actually made a lot of sense.

"Hey, Joe - Thanks for taking the time to show me all this."

"Anytime, son. Anytime."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** In Jack London's White Fang, the titular character learns that in order to survive in the dog-fighting ring, he must be quick, and never allow himself to be knocked off his feet or he'll _have his jugular torn open in seconds_. I was reminded of this when the tables turn on Barry as soon as he's knocked down and unable to utilize his speed in defense. I think Joe's coming from a very sane, rational place when he argues that just being superfast does not make someone equipped to fight crime on a regular basis. But if Barry's going to do it anyway, Joe's going to make sure he has a fighting chance.


	3. Streaky

Title: Streaky

No specific spoilers. Barry POV

Summary: As Joe said, Barry is something like a supersonic fireman. And that means pulling the occasional cat out of a tree.

* * *

><p>"Was that Andrea I just saw leaving? She's a little young for coffee, don't you think?" Barry joked as he walked into Jitters, sauntering over to Iris. (Well, okay, probably not sauntering - that was a bit beyond his abilities - but he liked to think he walked with more confidence nowadays.)<p>

"She's thirteen now, and she was just putting up a flyer on the board." Iris set down her tray and nodded to the notice board in question, liberally papered with community news. "Her cat's gone missing."

"Oh, that's too bad." He didn't know Andrea particularly well, but he had tagged along a couple of times when Iris used to babysit for the Sussmans, and what he did remember was a sweet, caring girl who was absolutely devoted to her pets.

"You'll keep an eye out, won't you? While you're out and about?" Iris asked, not with any sort of expectation, but rather full of the optimistic hope that if enough good-hearted people looked for the cat, of course it would be found. And how could Barry say no to that?

"Of course! I'm sure it'll be found in no time." That was barely even hyperbole, moving at his speeds.

"Thanks Barry!" She slung one arm around him in a quick hug, giving him a radiant smile, "I knew I could count on you."

They chatted for a few minutes more, but Iris was still on the clock and the tables weren't going to bus themselves. Barry wandered over to look at the new Lost Pet poster. The cat on the poster had bright orange fur and green eyes. Barry raised his eyebrow when he saw that it was named 'Streaky,' further cementing his conviction that 'The Streak' was a _terrible _name for his alter-ego, and he _really_ needed to find a subtle way to shift Iris on this point.

* * *

><p>Starting at the Sussmans' townhouse and working his way in concentric circles, it only took him 23 seconds to find the felonious feline. Getting him out of the tree was another matter; fortunately, the scratches were already completely healed by the time he worked his way back to the ground, cat in tow.<p>

His next order of business was a little less clear.

He could change back into his civvies and bring the cat directly to Andrea, return the cat as Barry Allen and decline the reward, and get a little recognition for this one small, not-even-barely-heroic thing. It wasn't as though finding a cat in a tree would raise suspicious flags and convince people he was a meta-human.

He would just bring it to STAR Labs to wait out the necessary length of time for his rescue to become credible, since finding it less than a minute after he saw the poster was not exactly low-key.

In his arms, Streaky mrow'ed softly and rubbed his head against Barry's chin.

Between himself, Cisco, and Caitlin (he wasn't sure if Dr. Wells was a cat-person or not), he was sure they could keep the little guy happy for a couple of hours… leaving Andrea out of her mind with worry for that little bit longer.

Or he could ding-dong-ditch the cat at her doorstep, and take no credit, and reunite a girl and her lost pet.

Barry sighed, wishing there was a wall nearby to thump his head against. Why was it that he couldn't even get a _little_ recognition for his good Samaritan acts? And this time it was something anyone could have done, with enough time and patience.

The cat in question bumped its head against Barry again, meowing more insistently. He obliged, shifting his grip to free one hand to scratch Streaky behind the ears. He definitely needed to convert Iris to 'The Flash,' before 'The Streak' really caught on.

* * *

><p>***Alternate Ending***<p>

"Dr. Wells! I've found a meta-cat!"

"A what?"

"It can fly and shoot lasers out of its eyes!"

"…"

"What do I do with it?

"…Bring it back to STAR Labs."

Easier said than done. The cat took a lot of coaxing - it was largely indifferent to his 'here kitty kitty's repeated _ad nauseam_, and no headway was made until Cisco and Caitlin turned up to render their assistance (read: see what was taking so long. Moreover, Cisco had evidently been recording the audio from the suit, and wanted some video files to make his blackmail complete). Caitlin was surprisingly good at kitty-talk, and had the lethally-superpowered feline curled up and purring in her arms inside of three minutes, which was so not fair.

They eventually decided to put it in one of their meta-human holding cells, everyone making frequent visits down that way to play with it. That lasted a few days, until a white dog with a red cape crashed through the wall, scooped up the cat, and flew away.

* * *

><p>AN: Originally, I was just going to borrow the names. Then this happened =0.o=


	4. Awake

Title: Awake

Set pre-series, circa 2005, Barry and Iris are around 16

Summary: It's three a.m., and Barry can't sleep. He's not alone.

* * *

><p>Barry rolled flat on his back and stared at the ceiling. He'd already tried counting prime-numbered sheep, and deep breathing exercises, and everything else he could think of, but his mind remained stubbornly awake.<p>

His ceiling was boring, but not in a sleep-inducing way. It offered nothing to distract him, so the gears of his brain could keep whirring, whirring, whirring.

He rolled onto his side instead. Now his blanket was tangled around his legs. He spent about five minutes settling it, but even that couldn't last forever.

The green digits of his alarm clock read 3:07

Over two hours since he'd tried to fall asleep, and he wasn't even drowsy.

This was so pointless.

He rolled out of bed and crept his way down the hall to the staircase, but as he neared the banister, he saw that the light was already on downstairs in the living room, so he walked the rest of the way normally, without trying to be quiet.

Iris was stretched out on the couch, the blue-striped afghan tucked snuggly around her. The tv was on mute; the late-night news stations having already moved past their breaking stories for the evening, it was now set on TVLand, playing reruns of 'The Andy Griffith Show'. She smiled when she saw him walk in. He smiled back.

"Hey, budge over." He nudged her feet and she complied, tucking her feet in to give him room to settle on the couch, obligingly lifting the blanket for him so they could share. Then she promptly stretched out to occupy the whole couch again, dropping her feet in his lap (he rolled his eyes, but didn't push them away).

"I wasn't sure if you were still awake. You seemed pretty tired," Iris smiled, and poked him in the stomach with one toe.

Barry shrugged, "History test tomorrow. I'd hoped to get a full night's sleep, but…well."

"Yeah." Iris agreed, sobering.

"Did you start the hot chocolate already?" Barry redirected.

"I just said I wasn't sure if you were still awake."

"So, what, you're incapable of having chocolate alone? Why do I find that - _hey!_" He knocked the pillow away from his face, remembering a much younger Iris on a night much the same ('They're called _throw pillows_ for a reason,' he'd told her, and he'd never regretted it). "No, don't get up; I've got it." He made sure to re-tuck the blanket around her feet as he vacated the couch.

In the kitchen, he set a pan of milk to warm on the stove, adding the chocolate syrup with flair (two counter-clockwise circles, followed by three clockwise, a little superstition his mother taught him to set things right). From the living room behind him, sound returned to the television, as there wasn't any reason to keep it muted anymore. He stirred the hot chocolate occasionally until it was ready, then returned to Iris with two steaming mugs, just in time to see the credits roll.

"Thanks, Barry," she took her mug from him gratefully. She curled up around her chocolate beverage and let him have a full half of the couch (he tried not to be disappointed). "'I Love Lucy' is on next."

"Next-next like right now, or next-after-this-block-of-Andy-Griffith?"

"Next after another episode of Andy Griffith."

Barry turned his head to look at the front door, "It shouldn't be much longer, should it? It's already been over two hours since the standoff ended." The standoff with an armed robber at a local convenience store, to which Joe had been a responder. It was over and done with now, nobody hurt, old news, but Joe still wasn't home yet, because _bureaucracy _was a _process_. And even knowing Joe was perfectly fine and safe didn't make it any easier to fall asleep.

Iris shrugged tersely, and sipped her cocoa.

On-screen, the theme-song whistled its way gaily through the opening credits.

"How about checkers?" Barry offered.

Iris smiled, full and wide and genuine, "I call red."

They played checkers and sipped hot chocolate, the early-early-morning television forgotten in the background, until Officer Joe West came home fifteen minutes later.


	5. Chickenpox

Title: Chickenpox

set pre-series, Barry is 8 years old

Summary: Barry has the chickenpox, and it's Joe's turn to keep an eye on him.

* * *

><p>With the amount of time those two kids spent together, it was no surprise they came down with chickenpox at the same time. It hadn't been so bad when they were both home sick and could keep each other company, but Iris had gone back to school the day before yesterday and Barry was getting <em>bored<em>.

Joe rubbed a tired hand over his face as he got out of bed. They'd arranged it so that Allen watched the kids in the morning until he had to leave for the clinic at ten, at which point Joe would take over and watch until he had to leave for his evening patrol at six, just a half hour after Allen got home. This meant that the bulk of the sick-kid-nursing was done by Joe, despite Allen being an _actual medical doctor_. Which wasn't fair to Allen, who would've stayed home if he could have. But Nora had never had chickenpox before, so even though she _desperately_ wanted to take care of the kiddies, Allen was even more desperately determined that she not catch it, and Joe was left operating on about four hours of sleep a night.

When Joe dragged himself down the stair at ten o'clock, Barry was already ensconced on the couch in front of Bill Nye, magazines scattered over the coffee table and a half-finished glass of water precariously close to falling off. Joe scooted it back to a better position.

"Dad already left." The eight-year-old informed him in all seriousness, "I asked him why there wasn't medicine for chickenpox, and he said that anti-biotics don't work on viruses because they target the bacterial ribosums, and viruses don't have ribosums."

"He said all that, did he?" Joe made a detour to the kitchen for the coffee machine, the pot already three-quarters full. _Thank you, Henry. _Barry waited patiently for his return - his color was much better than yesterday, and his spots were almost completely faded.

"Yeah. But then he had to leave before he could tell me what a ribosum was."

Joe chuckled, shaking his head ruefully. "I'm sorry, Barry. I can't help you there."

"Oh." He blinked owlishly up at Joe, "Don't you have an encyclopedia?"

Joe did not, in fact, own an encyclopedia, though it wouldn't surprise him if the Allens had several. "Tell you what. You let me take your temperature without any complaining, and I'll pick up your encyclopedia when I head over to get lunch." Nora Allen was a godsend; he didn't know how he would have survived this ordeal if she wasn't managing the meals.

He could see that Barry's first inclination was to try to renegotiate the terms, but he closed his mouth with a huff without saying anything, no doubt realizing that arguing would qualify as complaining. Smart kid.

He tucked the digital thermometer into Barry's armpit, who squirmed and made faces, but did not, as per their agreement, complain. "If your temperature is good for the rest of the day, you can go back to school tomorrow."

"Really?" Barry bounced excitedly, incidentally pulling away from the thermometer. Joe clasped a firm hand to his shoulder to hold him in place.

"Almost done, Barry." The thermometer beeped. 98.6 "Looks good. You've had breakfast?"

Barry heaved a long-suffering sigh, "_Yes_, Mister Officer West."

"Drink your water."

"_Yes_, I _did_!"

"Wasn't a question." He pressed the half-filled cup into Barry's unwilling hands, "Drink up and stay hydrated."

Barry scowled ferociously under his unruly mop of hair, in even more disarray than usual since he'd been curled up under a blanket not too long ago, but he did as he was bid, his focus sliding sideways to the television. Joe followed his gaze…"What on earth is he _wearing_?"

Riveted, Barry answered, "It's the Rockin' Wig of Science."

"Is that so?"

Joe went to the kitchen to pour himself a bowl of cold cereal before returning to take a seat on the couch next to Barry, "Why is he at a laundromat?"

"That's so that he can explain static cling. This is the one about static electricity. That's when there's a build-up of electrons on an object. Also clouds. I'm not really sure how the cloud thing works. But lightning is also static electricity."

With this level of energy, and no longer contagious, Barry would almost certainly be fine to return to school tomorrow.

* * *

><p><span><em>Did You Know That...<em>

_50-100 __lightning bolts  
><em>_HIT **the** GROUND  
><em>_every Second ALL  
><em>_**over** the **EARTH.**_

* * *

><p>AN: When picking an episode, I just ran a search for Bill Nye clip, and the bit with the Van der Graaf generator was the first result. The Rockin' Wig of Science suited my purposes, so I decided to run with it. Turns out, it's from the Static Electricity episode – you know, the one with the lightning ;)

Also, for those of you who are compulsive fact-checkers: yes, a chickenpox vaccine became available in the U.S. in 1995. However, this is set just two years later in 1997, and I imagine that not every child was vaccinated right away. Who knows, maybe Dr. Allen wanted to see more data.

Today, there _are_ antiviral drugs to treat the varicella-zoster virus that causes chickenpox. I started to dig deeper into timelines, looking at when aciclovir (patented in 1979) might have been applied to chickenpox...and then I decided to hand-wave it instead. So there. Dr. Allen is in a rush to get out the door, and he gives Barry a simplified answer rather than sit down and explain why, as a young child with a healthy immune system, Barry just needs to wait it out.


	6. The Best-Laid Plans

Title: The Best-Laid Plans

Summary: Sometimes, at S.T.A.R. Labs, things don't always go as planned. Sometimes, things go exactly as planned, and sometimes the plans are quite silly.

* * *

><p>Barry looked at the new apparatus set up in the Cortex of S.T.A.R. Labs dubiously. "Is this going to be like that time with the DDR machine?"<p>

Cisco rolled his eyes, "Are you bringing that up again?"

"I just don't want a repeat of what happened."

Cisco snorted, "I think you're blowing it _way_ out of proportion." He held his thumb and forefinger a half-inch apart. "That fire was extremely small and self-contained."

"_I_ almost caught fire!"

"Your suit is flame-retardant," Cisco countered.

Exasperated, Barry threw his hands into the air, "I wasn't wearing my suit!"

Folding his arms defensively, he frowned at Barry, "Well, I don't know why you're blaming me for _that._"

* * *

><p><strong>Earlier<strong>

Barry blinked at the bright squares of the DDR machine that now occupied one corner of the lab. "Is that - "

"This is for normalcy training." Dr. Wells explained nonsensically.

"Uh, no offense Doctor Wells, but normal people don't do DDR. Not anymore."

"Normal is boring!" Cisco called out from where he was sitting on his desk, chewing a twizzler, half-a-dozen loose wires draped over the back of his neck.

Dr. Wells moved forward, encroaching on Barry's personal space, forcing him to back up a step. "You've started lowering your guard, processing and moving at speeds _beyond_ normal human capabilities without consciously thinking about it. If you continue, you are Going. To. Slip. Up. And you are going to be found out."

Cisco cut in, hopping off the desk, "I've calibrated the machine to deduct points for responses that are too precise, while at the same time increasing its max speed to encourage you to go faster. So if you're faster than what is possible - you know, for anyone who isn't you - you'll be penalized."

"What's to stop me from just doing it really badly on purpose, then?"

Cisco grinned broadly, "I'm glad you asked! If you flub it, we get to throw popcorn at you!"

Barry stared, "What? No. That's ridiculous. Caitlin, tell him - "

There was a ding from the opposite corner of the lab. "Oh, popcorn's done!" Caitlin pulled the bag out of the microwave and shook it into a nearby bowl, "Now, get on with your training exercise." She shooed him forcibly into the corner.

"Can't I play Guitar Hero instead?" he asked, even as he turned resignedly to face the screen.

"Yeeah, shake it, Allen!" Cisco hooted.

Forty-five mortifying minutes later, as Barry _finally_ made it to 60 million points, the screen spontaneously burst into flame.

* * *

><p><strong>Now:<strong>

"This is totally different! So I forgot to increase the insulation of one of the wires when I was reconfiguring - I was in a rush. Your treadmill works fine, doesn't it? This is going to work right, too, trust me."

"Let the record show that I am extremely doubtful about the validity of this idea," Barry said, stepping into position.

* * *

><p><strong>32 Minutes Later:<strong>

"Good thing we keep plenty of fire-extinguishers handy, huh? And that hole in the ceiling will be super easy to fix, no problem at all."

* * *

><p>AN: Dance Dance Revolution isn't any more ridiculous that Operation: Chess-pong. It might even be a little less.

As for what the new training program is, I decided to leave that to the imagination. Personally, I like to think that there's some use for a trampoline; learning to reduce airtime would be important when travelling at high speeds, since he theoretically can't accelerate downwards any faster than gravity, and every moment he's not in contact with the ground is a moment he's not pushing himself forward.


	7. Timekeeping

Title: Timekeeping

Summary: One would think having superspeed would make a person more punctual. Too bad time is relative.

* * *

><p>Barry skidded to a halt just out of sight before rounding the corner to greet Iris. Who was, for some reason, looking very irate.<p>

"There you are, Barry!" Iris scolded

"What?" He blinked in surprise, "But I got here early!"

"It's ten-past six, Barry. You're late."

Barry looked back at his watch, which still insisted he was five minutes early. He checked the time on his phone, which agreed with Iris, so he carefully spun the long minute hand forward until his watch was correct again. "Sorry, sorry. I'm here now."

Fortunately, all they missed were a couple of trailers, and they made it in time for the opening credits. Unfortunately, this did not give Barry enough time to get popcorn before the movie started, so he had to leave for the concession stand fifteen minutes in, and missed a critical exchange between the lead protagonist and his future-nemesis, which made the ensuing revenge plot much harder to understand. Next time, Barry vowed, he _would_ be on time. What else was superspeed good for?

* * *

><p>A week later, his watch was slow again. Joe was less than amused.<p>

"Barry. You said you'd have that file on the Captain's desk by three o'clock. Do you know what time it is?"

"…my watch says it's three-oh-five."

"It's three-thirty, Barry! Now get that file, and get back down here."

Joe was extremely tolerant of Barry's tardiness due to Flash business. Heck, he even provided Barry with a cover story when necessary. However, since Barry kept him in the loop, he also knew when Barry _wasn't _busy with metahuman stuff. Joe was of the opinion that since Barry could work so much more quickly than the average person, he should be able to meet expectations easily; Barry shared this opinion, and was still trying to work out for himself why it didn't seem to work that way for him in reality.

* * *

><p>He had the battery changed. It didn't help. His watch continued to run slow, despite taking it to two separate watch repairmen, neither of whom could find anything wrong (it was a nice timepiece, he'd rather get it fixed than get it replaced).<p>

He'd always had a reputation for tardiness around the bullpen, and blaming it on a slow watch was only the latest in a long line of feeble excuses, even though, in these instances, it really was true. Even Iris was getting tired of hearing the same hackneyed reason over and over.

"Barry. Your watch running slow again?" Iris looked increasingly skeptical every time he blamed it.

"Yes! I don't understand it; I've taken it to have it looked at and no one could - oh, _gedankenversuch_!"

"Uh…gesundheit?" Iris's smile quirked to one side as she raised one eyebrow.

Barry hurried to explain, "_Gedankenversuch, or g__edankenexperiment,_ was a term used by Einstein to describe his 'thought experiments' - though, he wasn't the one to coin the phrase - But his purely conceptual experiments would lead him to develop his theory of relativity! And -" _and special relativity might explain why my watch runs slow, relative to yours. Because the faster an object moves through space, the slower it moves through time " -_ and I have to go." _before I say something that will tip you off. _

"What? Barry…"

"I just remembered - I - Just give me twenty minutes to get this one small thing done, and then I'll be right back. I promise - It's just that I just remembered...this thing that I really have to do. It's not super important, or anything, nothing to worry about, just...time sensitive." He grinned, "Yeah, it's time sensitive, and you know me, always running late - I just thought that if I left now, I could be on time for once?"

"And Einstein relates to this - how?" Both eyebrows raised, and Iris was in full skeptic-mode. Not good.

Barry opened his mouth to respond, but couldn't think of anything. Iris waited patiently, arms folded. He seized upon the first semi-coherent thought to drift through his head, "Tutoring! That's the thing I'm going to be late for, I'm helping a friend with a research paper and the topic is Einstein. And you know I'm a big fan of ole' Albert."

"You're going to be able to tutor them in less than twenty minutes?"

"Wha-? Oh, because I said I'd be back in twenty minutes. No, see, I just need to...call them, to reschedule, so I was just going to excuse myself so I could go do that. It probably won't even take a full twenty minutes."

"So let me get this straight. The time-sensitive thing you need to do right now, to leave right now for in order to be on time, is to take twenty minutes to call a friend to reschedule your tutoring session?"

"Yes." Barry insisted feebly, fully aware of Iris's disappointment, of the fact that no one would buy his story in a million years. He was aware of the fact that he didn't actually have anywhere else he needed to be (he could have stayed with Iris and hung out as planned), that he'd made that excuse in an attempt to extricate himself quickly from a sticky conversational mess, and that he'd only made it even more of a mess. "Yes," he repeated again, slump-shouldered.

Iris frowned more deeply, worry crinkling her brow, and he hated that. He'd do anything to make that go away. In fact...

"You know what, Iris? You're right. I got all caught up in my worry because I'd forgotten about it until just now, but it really shouldn't take twenty minutes to make a phone call. I'll give..." he groped for a name Iris wouldn't recognize, "Diggle a call right now."

* * *

><p>Elsewhere, in Starling City:<p>

Oliver Queen looked down at his phone, playing a very strange voicemail from Barry: _"Hey, Diggle, it's me. Can we reschedule that thing - that Einstein thing...paper for...uh...later? Yeah. You've got my number, call me back when you get the chance. Bye!"_

"Do you think it's a code?" Diggle asked, bemused.

"No, I don't think so. But you're welcome to call him back to ask about the Einstein thing-paper."

* * *

><p>Tucking his phone back into his pocket, Barry wrapped one arm around Iris and steered them towards that great Mongolian grill on Market Street. If the problem with his watch was what he thought it was, then no amount of watch repair was going to fix it. Though he wished someone at S.T.A.R. Labs could have pointed out the problem sooner. In fact, hadn't Cisco said...?<p>

* * *

><p>"Cisco!" Barry yelled, bursting into the Cortex, "Cisco, you forgot something important!"<p>

"What, what did I forget?"

"Remember when you said it only _looked_ like the world was slowing down, because I was moving so fast? Yeah, well, as it turns out, Einstein had a thing or two to say about the relationship between time and accelerated objects."

"My bad," Cisco shrugged sheepishly.

"You worked on a _particle accelerator_! How did it not occur to you my watch would start to fall behind?"

"Why don't you just use your phone? That gets its time from the cell towers, right?"

"That's not the point!" Inwardly, Barry wondered the same thing.

* * *

><p>AN: Barry's obviously not wearing the watch when he's in the suit, which is when he does most (but not all) of his speeding, and he would need to be going a _lot_ faster than Mach 1 for a _lot_ longer before the time dilation became as great as it is here. I blame it on two factors: One, the effects of time dilation are exaggerated due to Comic Book Physics, and Two: the Speed Force is probably doing something wonky. Again. (It does that)_  
><em>

I'm not saying that time dilation explains all of Barry's experiences in superspeed mode. It's probably only a little bit time dilation and a lot more superspeed-perception, where he's processing stimuli at a much faster rate, which the show presents to us as looking like a slow-motion video, as a visual device to illustrate his incredible speed. (Cisco's comment about time not actually slowing down serves to inform both Barry and the audience that his ability is superspeed, not time manipulation).

If you're wondering about special relativity and time dilation, I recommend searching YouTube, because I think graphic representation helps a lot when talking about objects in motion. I'm not going to try to summarize it further here, because it would be extremely difficult to do so without diagrams, and more importantly, physics is not my field of expertise, so I'd probably make a jumble of it.


	8. Ice Cream

Title: Ice Cream

Written for Spitfire303, who suggested ice cream.

Takes place over a span of years, beginning in 1994 (so, warning for Nora being alive and happy at the very beginning of the fic. I don't know if that needs to be warned for. It just makes me sad.) This is pretty much nothing but ice cream, science, feels, and more ice cream.

* * *

><p><span>Five Times Barry's Ice Cream Melted, and One Time it Didn't<span>

* * *

><p><strong>One<strong>

In the summer of 1994, Nora Allen took her five-year-old son out for ice cream after going to see _The Lion King_. Barry asked for strawberries, Snickers pieces, and caramel sauce on his sundae, and the resulting mess was considerably stickier than the ice cream would ever have managed to be on its own. Barry kept up a continuous stream of chatter, and Nora, fondly, kept reminding him to east his ice cream before it melted completely, to no avail.

It was a good thing he'd asked for it in cup, and not a cone.

* * *

><p><strong>Two<strong>

Rudolph "Rudy" West was home for his first summer break after starting college, and the West household, now including Barry, had gone out for ice cream to celebrate.

Barry didn't know Rudy all that well. Rudy had been a senior in high school when – when what happened happened, and he'd left for Nebraska on a football scholarship less than a year later, and Barry had not seen or heard from him since.

(Rudy equally didn't seem to know what to do with a little brother he'd never asked for, and stayed pretty aloof.)

Barry focused on his ice cream, licking silently at his cone as they walked down the boulevard. Iris was giving him funny looks every so often as she managed her own two scoops of double fudge. He supposed maybe he was being unusually quiet (Rudy tended to have that effect on him, being so much older).

Rudy was telling a story about his 'weirdo roommate,' and Barry's attention wandered away to their surroundings. He saw a stray dog snuffling in the alley up ahead. Well, he saw its head peek out for a moment, before it ducked back and was lost from sight. He looked at his ice cream, and he looked at where he'd seen the dog disappear... The sidewalk they were on went right past it; they were going to walk right by in another moment…three…two…one…He stumbled as they walked past the mouth of the alley, his strawberry-and-mint cone tumbling to the ground in a pink and green splatter. Barry tensed - would they suspect he'd dropped it on purpose?

"He's not going to start crying, is he?" Rudy remarked snidely. Maybe there was a reason Barry disliked him, beyond just not knowing what to say around him.

They'd come to a halt, everyone stopping to look at the dropped cone, at Barry - but Barry's attention was still, out of the corner of his eye, on the space between the two buildings. The dog had wiry fur, with dirty paws and ribs Barry could count even from this distance. It was crouched against the metal gate that cut the alley in half, half-hidden behind some garbage cans. It's head was up, watching the goings-on in front of the alley with an inscrutable expression. Barry kept his head down, and started to walk forward again (he didn't think it would come any closer to his ice cream while they were still there) but he bumped into Joe with a startled 'oomph!'

Joe was kneeling on the sidewalk in front of Barry, concerned; he must have brought himself to Barry's level while Barry had been focused elsewhere. "Hey, Barry, are you alright?"

"m'fine"

"Accidents happen, and when they do, we just have to pick ourselves up and keep going."

Barry squirmed; it hadn't been an accident. He wished Joe would stop talking and let them move on, he didn't like all the attention. Especially since Iris was still being sympathetic, and asking if they could go back and get Barry another cone, and that just made him feel even more awful…

"Wasn't an accident," he mumbled to his shoes.

"What?"

"I dropped it on purpose." Hoping to leave it at that, he tried to brush past Joe, but Joe put both hands on his shoulders and held him in place.

"Why would you do that, son?"

He shrugged, but at that moment the dog must have brushed up against something, because there was a loud clang from that direction as something metal - maybe a pipe - clattered to the ground. Everyone's heads turned; the jig was up.

"Oh, Barry." He heard Joe take a deep, slow breath. "You get that from your mother." Joe wrapped his arms around him, and Barry sniffled into his shoulder, and it had nothing to do with spilled ice cream, no matter what Rudy thought.

"He looked hungry. And I thought - I thought - "

"_Shh, shh, sh._ It's alright, Barry. I'm not mad. But you know, it just isn't feasible to feed all the strays you come across. And ice cream probably isn't that healthy for dogs."

"S'not healthy for people, either."

Joe laughed, and gave Barry one more tight squeeze before letting him go, "Then we'd better get a move on, so he can enjoy it before it melts."

Oddly enough, Barry was feeling better than he had before he dropped his cone. Someday much later, he'd learn the meaning of the word 'catharsis,' but this summer day, he only thought that maybe they'd go swimming later. That could be fun.

* * *

><p><strong>Three<strong>

"Why are you staring at your ice cream? It's going to melt." Iris had come down to the kitchen after finishing her English homework to find Barry focusing with single-minded intensity on the bowl of fudge ripple in front of him.

"That's the point." Barry went on to explain that because ice cream was so cold, it numbed the taste buds, so ice cream producers had to add extra sugar to make it taste sweet. He gestured to the science magazine in front of him, open to an article about the chemistry of ice cream, "It says that that's why melted ice cream tastes sweeter, and I wanted to know to what extent that's true."

After another minute of very little progress, Iris offered a suggestion, "Why don't you just microwave it?"

Barry shook his head, "That could introduce confounding factors. What if microwaving it affects the taste?" He paused thoughtfully, "though, that could be another experimental group. We should compare ice cream that's been melted by sitting out to ice cream melted in the microwave, see if it does make a difference."

Iris nodded thoughtfully, "Then, what if you put the bowl in a larger pot of warm water, like if you were thawing chicken in a hurry?"

"Excellent idea!" Barry bounced out of his seat and started running the tap to warm up the water. After banging about under the sink, he emerged with the pot usually used for pasta, filled it up with two inches of hot water, and brought it back to the table. Iris carefully lowered the bowl of ice cream to the bottom, keeping a watchful eye on the water level.

Then they sat back down to wait.

"So, Barry, did you finish your essay for Mrs. Hutchinson's class?"

"Ah, well, sorta. I mean, I have a rough draft, it just..."

Iris held out her hand imperiously, "Let me take a look."

"Oh, you don't have to do that," he hedged.

"You helped me with my algebra. Besides, that ice cream is at least another ten minutes from being soup."

Together, they bent over the lined paper with corrective intent. Iris hummed thoughtfully as she marked a few places that needed commas and several spelling mistakes. When she got to the second body paragraph, she began scribbling notes in the margin. "You've deviated from your topic sentence. See, here you didn't offer any evidence to - "

"Evidence?"

Iris rolled her eyes, "Yes, Barry Allen, evidence. Just because it isn't science, doesn't mean you don't have to offer support to make your point."

"Mrs. Berkhart just goes on and on about support, I thought she just meant use logic or something. Evidence makes much more sense." She could see the light dawning in his eyes, and, impulsively, she dipped her finger in the goopy ice cream and dabbed it on his nose.

He stared at her in shock, spluttering; she laughed at his expression, "It's melted!"

And, Iris found, the melted ice cream did taste sweeter.

* * *

><p><strong>Four<strong>

Central City was in the middle of its worst heat wave in thirty years, but that was not going to deter the 8th Precinct's annual Fourth of July Barbecue. They'd reserved both pavilions at Gardner Park, and had been grilling non-stop since two o'clock to feed the ravenous horde of family and friends. Franklin, Central City's Fire Marshal, had stopped by a little while ago to grumble about the busy day he had ahead of him and complain about people who didn't follow fireworks zoning laws; he was bequeathed two enormous racks of ribs to take back to the firehouse, as per tradition.

Right now, Paulson was stepping up to take over the grilling from Joe, who gratefully handed over the apron and tongs, snagged his beer off the nearby table, and went to find some shade.

He found Iris sitting alone at a picnic in one of the pavilions, a plate of chips in front of her.

"Where's Barry?" he asked; a moment later his question resolved itself when the young man in question jogged up with two popsicles.

"Oh, hey, Joe! Did you want one? I could go back to the truck - " he made as if to turn around, but Joe gestured him to take a seat instead.

"Better eat the ones you have before they melt."

"Oh, uh, they're not both mine. Here's yours, Iris."

"Thanks, Barry." She unwrapped her strawberry shortcake bar with obvious delight, as Barry worked out how to best manage his grape twinpop.

"So, how does it feel, to be college sophomores?" Joe pulled a chip off of Iris's plate.

"Dad! It's summer! Classes don't start again for another two months."

"Actually," Barry grinned shyly, "I'm taking a summer course that starts next week."

"Really? What for?"

Barry's forehead wrinkled as he smiled lop-sidedly at Iris, "Do you mean, what class is it for, or, what on earth would I take a summer class for?"

"The first one, you doofus," she rolled her eyes, exasperated, "Anyone with eyes knows why you'd take a summer class."

"Oh, right, right. ... And that reason is...?"

"Because you're super-smart and you love learning?"

Barry smiled sappily at her, before he seemed to become aware of what that looked like, and he turned back to face Joe. "It's just a general chemistry course, but it's a pre-req for a lot of more advanced, specialized classes...I'm actually considering an accelerated program that would get me both my bachelor's and my master's in just five years."

Joe wasn't surprised Barry wanted to pursue an accelerated program, "What would you get your master's in?"

"Actually, I'm thinking about going into forensic science - _ohcrap!_" The forgotten popsicle dripped messily onto the front of Barry's shirt.

"_Dammit!_" Barry swore again, "I really liked this shirt!" Joe had certainly seen him wear it often enough. It had a single square from the Periodic Table of Elements, a bold **Ba** in the center and 'BARIUM' written beneath in smaller sans-serif font, as well as all the accompanying numbers of no-doubt scientific significance. Iris had ordered it from some site that could put any of the chemical elements on a t-shirt, hat, tote bag, water bottle...it had been for Christmas a few years ago now, as he recalled.

"Don't give up on it yet. There's still time if we act quickly. Give it to me." Joe held out his hand patiently as Barry pulled off his shirt with obvious reluctance, blushing beet red to the roots of his hair. Iris remained oblivious. _That boy_… Joe had resigned himself ages ago to a strict non-interference policy, but some days really tested his resolve.

"But what'll I wear?" Barry had his arms crossed self-consciously in front of him, and Joe had to admit that while Barry was hardly the only one to be shirtless, the other guys were all of a definite...type, that Barry was not.

"Go see if Chyre has any surplus shirts that will fit you. We're going to give away D.A.R.E. shirts to the kids who participate in the three-legged race. He might have an extra large one that will fit you."

"Joe, those are kids' shirts, I don't think..."

"Your choice. You can put this one on again and hope it doesn't stain, or you can stand proud as an example to the children of our community of the importance of drug abuse resistance."

"These aren't children of the community, these are cops' kids..." Barry grumbled, but he uncrossed his arms and stood up from the table.

"Last I saw Chyre, he was playing badminton."

Barry hurried off to where the nets were set up, and Joe set to work blotting the stain with some icewater scooped from a cooler.

After several moments of watching him work, Iris asked, "Dad. Don't you also have adult t-shirt prizes for the pie-eating contest?"

"And Barry can have one, _if_ he wins the pie-eating contest. But there's no way he's beating me, so it's a moot point." Joe dabbed carefully at the stain with a piece of lemon he'd fished out of the lemonade jug.

Iris looked in the direction Barry had disappeared, "I'll get him another ice cream just the same, cheer him up. Maybe something in a cup."

"Good thinking, Iris. Spoil his appetite." The purple was already quite faded. If they threw it in the wash as soon as they got home, there shouldn't be a problem.

Iris punched him lightly on the shoulder, "Dad, you shouldn't tease him so much."

"I'm a father, we're at a barbecue; it's my prerogative to tease."

In the end, neither of them won the pie-eating contest, and the prize was awarded to Officer Parkman from traffic control. Still, Joe thought as he leaned back in his lawn chair later that evening, sitting with Iris on one side and Barry on the other, overall it was a pretty great day. Yeah, a pretty damn good day, he thought, as pinwheels of color exploded overhead.

* * *

><p><strong>Five<strong>

Barry had told Iris that he'd been at his apartment, eating up his ice cream before it melted. This was a lie - he'd been fighting a meta-human, and now his ice cream was a soupy mess. He gazed forlornly at what had once been a tub of Neapolitan. The stripes had all run together into an unappetizing flesh-colored goop - if he refroze it, it wouldn't be as creamy, since he had a crappy freezer whose slow freeze time would allow large ice crystals to form. Unless...he could maybe borrow some liquid nitrogen from S.T.A.R. Labs. That could work. (still wouldn't sort out the chocolate from the strawberry. Damn.)

* * *

><p><strong>+1<strong>

"That has got to be the largest ice cream I've ever seen." Barry's massive black cherry waffle cone easily dwarfed Joe's (much more reasonable) strawberry with chocolate sprinkles in a sugar cone.

"This? _pffftt_. There's this place in Farson, Wyoming, that stacks their cones up to here." He held the hand not holding the cone another two inches above his already towering giant.

"What were you doing in Wyoming?" Joe worked methodically to keep any ice cream from dribbling down to his fingers.

"I got hungry coming back from Starling City." Barry then blurred as he devoured his cone in less than three seconds. "ARRGH!" He clutched both hands to his head.

"Barry! Barry! What's wrong?!" But even before he finished asking, Barry was smiling again, no worse for the wear.

"Brain freeze! I ate too quickly," he laughed it off.

"I thought, your metabolism..."

"Actually, brain freeze is the result of a vascular mechanism, not a metabolic process - cold-constricted blood vessels in the mouth rebound as they warm up, and the fifth nerve sends a pain signal to the brain, which didn't evolve to deal with ice cream and interprets it as a headache." He shrugged, a casual 'what can you do about it?' gesture. "I can just get over it much faster."

Reassured, Joe returned to leisurely licking his ice cream, "Was it worth it? Because now you're all out of ice cream."

Barry zipped away, and returned with a second, equally large cone. Chocolate-chip cookie dough, this time, and as they walked side-by-side towards downtown, Barry consumed it at a more normal rate. Joe was determined not to feel jealous of the amount of dessert Barry could consume with impunity.


	9. Lab Assistant

Title: Lab Assistant

Set just a few months pre-series, before Barry's first trip to Starling. Joe's POV

Summary: Joe's thoughts on Barry's position in the Central City Police Department.

* * *

><p>Detective Joe West sighed as he pulled forward the topmost file in his intake tray. He flipped it open to see it was the toxicology results he'd asked for, for the Mulligan case. His forehead creased when he saw Dr. Elias Snodgrass's name on the report; he'd have to give it to Barry, unobtrusively, for a second opinion.<p>

Dr. Elias Snodgrass was CCPD's senior forensic scientist, who had been with the department for over fifty years, and whose work had helped close a number of high-profile cases. Back in his heyday (which was something like _thirty years ago_), he'd been a very well-renowned, well-respected forensic scientist, who had made, as Joe understood it, a number of important contributions to the field. But today, he relied more on his reputation than his work ethic, and his reports had gotten increasingly slipshod of late, according to Barry.

There wasn't much anyone could do about it - Dr. Snodgrass's reputation shielded him from censure (after all, what would a _detective_ like Joe know about whether the spectrometer results were analyzed correctly?) - and he'd been with the department so long, he was practically a permanent fixture.

There was also the matter of his family connections. In the early nineteen-hundreds, before the market crashed, the Central City Police Department had received a generous endowment from the daughter of a police commissioner, who'd married into money - Elias Snodgrass's mother. As a result, CCPD had a pretty swanky headquarters, and a less-competent senior scientist that they just couldn't get rid of.

So for the time being, as most people waited for him to retire (had _been_ waiting, for about fifteen years), Joe compensated by giving Snodgrass's finished reports to Barry for a second opinion. The rest of the department, following Joe's lead, treated Barry as the _de facto_ lead scientist, despite the fact that he was only an assistant. Further confusing matters, especially to incoming rookie cops, was the fact that Barry had a lab to himself on the top floor, while Dr. Snodgrass and his other assistants shared lab space on the floor below.

But the reason for that didn't have anything to do with seniority. That auxiliary lab, which received the more outdated equipment whenever the main lab got upgrades, was given over to Barry when the other lab folks issued complaints about him running experiments in his spare time. This way, Barry was free to dabble to his heart's content, without getting in anyone's way (always a good thing, Joe thought with relief, remembering a time when Barry had tried to conduct those sorts of experiments in the house).

Joe closed the file and dropped it onto his desk, his mind now fully preoccupied with thoughts of Barry and his position in the CCPD. On the one hand, Joe was proud that Barry had decided to go into law enforcement, to put his talents towards serving his community, and was profoundly relieved that he'd done it by going the science route, rather than trying to join the police academy like Iris had. However, he was increasingly convinced that rather than making the decision in order to follow in Joe's footsteps, or out of a burning desire to process fingerprints, Barry had chosen his current profession out of a misguided, quixotic crusade to exonerate his rightfully-convicted father.

And Joe just didn't know whether it would be better to confront him about it, or let him get on with his work. Chronic tardiness aside, Barry did good work at CCPD, and he was likely to replace Snodgrass when he finally retired, despite his young age. The Department certainly needed him. And yet, Joe was not as firm in his certainty that _Barry_ needed the _Department_.

Barry was talented, and could do anything he set his mind to. It had confused Joe, at the time, how Barry had hurried to get a job in forensics as fast as he possibly could, and had never once raised the question of possibly taking the time to pursue a Ph.D., or applying for a purely-research position at a different lab, where his peers would share his passion for science and _understand_ him. Which wasn't to say that Barry was a poor fit for CCPD; Barry was doing great things as a forensic scientist. He helped a lot of people, and his work made the streets of Central City a safer place. But sometimes Joe wondered if he could be doing more, applying himself to studies that would further all of society. He had the brains for it, and he had the heart. He was just too damn preoccupied with his vendetta against an imaginary man in a ball of lightning, chasing the impossible.

Joe leaned back in his chair and rubbed at the creases entrenched in his forehead. Coffee. He needed coffee. He'd refill his mug, and get back to working productively on his paperwork. After all,_ professionally_, Barry's motivations shouldn't matter, so long as it wasn't impacting his work ethic (which was still much better than Snodgrass's, and _why_ couldn't they force his retirement, _why?_). However, _personally_, as a father... Joe sighed again; he needed more time to figure out what it was he wanted to say.

* * *

><p>AN: My attempt to explain the complete lack of anyone else in CCPD's forensic lab, even though it was once emphasized by Oliver that he's only a lab _assistant_.

I grabbed the name 'Snodgrass' from one of Samuel L. Clemens's less famous pseudonyms, Thomas Jefferson Snodgrass III. No particular connection to the story (this time), I just really like Mark Twain.


	10. Parole

Title: Parole

Written for a prompt by RedHatMeg

Henry POV. Takes place in hypothetical future two years down the line where he's out of Iron Heights (paroled, but not yet exonerated)

Summary: Henry struggles to adjust to life on the Outside, and finds nothing so hard to navigate as interpersonal relationships

Note: Thus far, we have yet to see a meta-human confrontation be resolved with due process. Therefore, 'catching his mother's killer' and 'releasing his father from prison' might not go hand-in-hand, if, in the catching of said killer, they don't also obtain admissible evidence. This story is built on the premise that enough evidence was brought forward to cast doubt on Henry's conviction and allow him a meeting with the parole board. Parole was granted, and Barry and Joe are still working on getting his conviction overturned.

* * *

><p>Henry dropped his keys into the re-purposed ash tray on the corner table and pushed the door closed behind him with one foot. The light of a passing car swept through his apartment, illuminating every shabby, empty inch of it in slow motion.<p>

He dropped onto the couch with a sigh, one of only two pieces of furniture in the room besides the corner table, the other being a comparatively nice dark-stained oak bookcase that was rather too large for the room, and made the space seem even smaller by comparison. The radiator started hissing - whether in greeting or complaint he didn't know - but he ignored it.

Back in Iron Heights, his lawyer had asked him if he'd have a place to live if he was paroled, that the parole board would look on him more favorably if he did - and he'd said that he was going to live with his son, Barry, who'd made room in his apartment. His lawyer, a mousey man with thick glasses who smelled like candy corn, had frowned very slightly, just the corners of his mouth, and hemmed and hawed; he had seemed to be working himself up to disagree. After almost two minutes of not-quite-frowning he'd managed to express his opinion that, given the matter for which he was convicted, moving in with the son of the deceased - who was Henry's _wife, godammit, _she was Nora, and _he'd loved her - _might not be the best approach. Henry had said he'd take that under advisement, and asked him to leave. _Now._

As it turned out, not many places were willing to rent to a convicted murderer. Joe had finally found him an apartment, not far from the precinct, which was convenient since he was expected to meet with his parole officer there once a week.

His lawyer had also asked if he had any gainful employment waiting for him. He said he'd have a position at S.T.A.R. Labs. The man had frowned a bit again at that, but Henry had cut him off before he could articulate whatever it was he found objectionable this time. "I know their reputation hasn't been that great since the explosion. But they're a research lab. Even if my license to practice hadn't been revoked, I doubt I'd be able to attract very many patients."

His lawyer had tried to agree as diplomatically as possible that this was very true.

In the here and now, a police siren started up outside. Living just a few blocks from the precinct, he always heard the squad cars whenever they left in a hurry, at all hours of the night. Fortunately, patrol cars in the field were more often the closest responders, or else the disruptions would be even more frequent.

Tomorrow was Wednesday. He'd be making his weekly visit to the precinct, to be asked intrusive questions about how he was adjusting, what he was doing, who he was spending time with, where did he go.

He was finally Out, why would he want to be anywhere except where Barry was?

* * *

><p>Henry had been Outside for a little over a month, and this would be his fourth meeting with Officer Montoya. He'd only run into Joe on one of those occasions - his first visit. It had been...different than Henry had expected.<p>

(He could get along with Joe just fine if they were alone, and he did see Joe fairly often. The man was, after all, working hard to get his conviction overturned. They had been friends, once. Nowadays they met for coffee, sometimes, to talk about how Henry's case was going, or to talk about Barry. There were things that sons did not tell their fathers, that must be observed to be known, and Henry ached to know _everything_.

Sometimes, they talked about life's minutia. 'Matters of Consequence', Nora would have called it, mock-derisively with a twinkle in her eye; The Little Prince had been her favorite, and Henry had treasured the beat-up, water-stained copy he'd found tucked in one corner of Iron Heights' library - "_In the course of this life I have had a great many encounters with a great many people who have been concerned with matters of consequence… I would bring myself down to their level. I would talk to them about bridge, and golf, and politics, and neckties. And the grown-ups would be greatly pleased to have met such a sensible man."_

( Henry knew that, sometimes, when she was _supposed_ to be tucking Barry into bed, she had instead set up the telescope, and they'd stayed up well past his bedtime, giggling and whispering as they pretended to search for Asteroid B-612 )

So Henry spoke with Joe about Matters of Consequence: politics and sports and even, once, Joe's neckties, which had caused Henry to laugh until he was wracked with sobs, much to Joe's alarm. Henry had already grieved for Nora, and while he knew he'd never really _stop_, the first ten years had done their best to blunt the pain. But now that he was Out, he saw Nora in her favorite bookstore, in the children's center she raised money for, in the puddles after a rainy day she would have encouraged Barry to jump in. He'd cried tears of joy to be with Barry again, but that day he found himself weeping for the first time in five years.

It was a pain Joe understood, and in that shared understanding, Henry didn't mind so much to be crying salty tears into his coffee.

All said, Henry got along with Joe just fine.)

However, at that first visit to his parole officer a month ago, when Joe had come to greet him at the door and point him in the right direction, Henry had learned something important. At the precinct, he wasn't Joe; he was Officer West. Henry didn't much like Officer West. Officer West had once stood by while his hands were cuffed behind his back. He found it hard to trust Officer West.

That first time, he'd walked in the door, and seen Joe standing there, and seen the badge clipped to his belt, and the way he stood, the way others deferred to him, and a switch had flipped in his brain. It was a switch he wasn't even aware he had (there were other switches he _was_ aware of, that he kept a careful eye on, so that he could run errands to the corner store without seeing contraband everywhere). Officer West had greeted him warmly, and he'd stared, and hadn't said anything. Not one word.

He wasn't sure what Officer West thought of his behavior. He knew Joe would probably think he'd been nervous about his upcoming meeting. Thus far, he'd managed to avoid encountering Officer West on his subsequent trips to the precinct. (He hadn't told his therapist about this particular habit of compartmentalization. He wasn't sure why he needed a therapist, since his parole officer loved to ask really invasive personal questions anyway, and why should he have to repeat himself?)

It just figured his luck would run out today.

Because when he walked into the precinct at two-thirty on Wednesday for his fourth parole meeting and saw Barry in an animated conversation with Officer West, his first irrational thought was to _get Barry away from him_. Then he realized Barry was smiling, was _laughing_, and he very nearly turned on his heal and walked out. Except, he had an appointment he couldn't afford to miss. And now Barry had caught sight of him and was waving him over.

So he walked over.

And he told himself, repeatedly, that this was Joe, who'd been instrumental to getting him Out, with whom he, Barry, and Iris had shared Chinese take-out with just last night.

An officer behind Joe frowned as Henry walked over, and leaned down to whisper in the ear of her partner, who looked up at Henry and didn't even try to hide his obvious distaste.

Henry's walk faltered, but Barry didn't seem to notice as he came bounding up to Henry for a tight embrace - he was an inch taller than Henry now, and had to tuck his head down to rest his forehead on Henry's shoulder. Henry gripped him back just as tightly, burying one hand in his hair as the other clutched at his back, bunching the fabric of his jacket. Over a month on the Outside, and they were still incapable of greeting each other any other way.

Eventually, they pulled apart, and Officer West - no, he'd made Detective - no, he was _Joe_ - stepped forward.

"Henry! I missed you the past few weeks. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were avoiding me."

Henry didn't have anything to say to that, and Detective West's genial smile slipped. It would have been better if Henry could have laughed it off. Now Barry was looking at him with concern, and Henry found he couldn't meet anyone's eyes.

He didn't even knew how to respond when Detective West called him 'Henry.' Joe had hardly ever called him 'Henry,' Before. He'd mostly called him 'Allen,' a holdover of his profession. (The fact that his surname worked just as well as a given name made it seem all the more natural). When the heck has he started calling him 'Henry'? After he'd been sent to prison, he thought. It made no sense. Why would he change it? Was it a guilt thing? Henry didn't know.

"I'm going to be late." Henry said. (He was five minutes early), "I'll see you around."

* * *

><p>The meeting went about as well as he'd expected. It wasn't appreciably different than the week before, or the week before that, but this time he was, perhaps, a little bit more snappish than Montoya deserved. He couldn't help it; his thoughts were a jumbled mess going into the meeting, and they weren't any less jumbled coming out.<p>

When he stepped out, he saw Barry waiting for him. This was a marked improvement in his day.

Barry grinned broadly at him, but his brow was furrowed with concern. "Hey, are you hungry? I'm hungry. There's a place nearby, Tito's, best burritos in the city. It's an easy walking distance." Barry paused, thoughtfully, his eyes turned skyward as though reassessing the distance. "Yeah, easy walking distance," he confirmed. Walking distance was important when neither of them had a car.

"Sounds great. Been awhile since I had a good burrito." He found himself saying that a lot - ' awhile' was a nice euphemism for 'sixteen years.'

Though their strides were matched in length, Barry's was much quicker, and he had to devote considerable attention to slowing down; that was probably why he didn't notice the way mothers pulled their children away from Henry, or the way anyone who caught his face gave him a wide berth. (His release from Iron Heights had made the news, after all). Henry was getting used to it, and he was learning to ignore the suspicion that the waitresses at the diner spat in his coffee every morning. Maybe he'd have better luck at some yuppie chain but he _liked _diner coffee, black as anything and uncomplicated.

Tito's did have very good burritos; Barry ordered seven, with extra guacamole and cheese. Their server didn't even bat an eye - Barry was clearly a regular.

As Barry scooped up the last dregs of fried rice with his fork, he tentatively broached the topic that had clearly been weighing on his mind. "Is...is everything alright between you and Joe?"

"Hm? Yeah, sure, why wouldn't it be? We get coffee once or twice a week, swap stories. He refuses to tell me any truly embarrassing stories about you. Don't worry, though; I'll wear him down."

Barry continued to scrape his fork across his plate restlessly, even though there wasn't a single grain left on it. "I just...I guess I...Look, there's something I've been wanting to tell you."

He took a deep breath, "Lots of kids have both a dad and a step-dad. There's no reason for you to be…threatened, or jealous, or whatever it is that has you acting, acting…"

As Barry fumbled for words, Henry was suddenly, inexhaustibly grateful that Barry had come to visit him in Iron Heights that day, against his wishes, and had continued to visit. It meant that the young man in front of him today was not a stranger to him. He didn't think he could have endured hearing those words from a stranger, under the circumstances.

"It's not that, Barry." Not entirely. "I get how, from your point of view, there isn't a...a..._conflict of interest _in having more than one father in your life. But I just know that I haven't _been_ a part of your life, and - "

"No, Dad," Barry rushed to reassure, "You were there for me. You were always there for me. Just because you weren't _present_, doesn't mean you weren't there. Please, just, talk to Joe."

"I do talk to Joe. Once or twice a week, over coffee."

"When was the last time you two went out for a beer?" Barry pointed out astutely.

"Ah...it's been awhile." Awhile: sixteen years, give or take.

Barry narrowed his eyes. His son could be shrewd, when the mood took him. "Meet him after work on Friday, invite him for a drink."

Henry restlessly shredded his paper napkin between his fingers, "It's not that easy, son."

"_Please._"

As if Henry had a choice, now.

* * *

><p>Friday evening, Henry stood outside the precinct's heavy doors, waiting. He kept weighing up all the reasons this was a terrible idea and concluding he should get out while he still could. He would continue seeing Joe for coffee and never deal with the Detective if he could help it. That is exactly what he would do.<p>

He shifted his weight, almost resolved to leave (there was still the matter of what Barry would say to work out), when the doors in front of him opened.

"Want to go get a drink?" Henry blurted as soon as he saw Detec -saw _Joe_. It came out more confrontational than he intended, but Joe only gave him a long look, a shrug, and a recommendation for an Irish pub two blocks down.

They walked in silence, and Henry tried _really hard_ to ignore the badge still clipped to West's belt. This time, Joe couldn't possibly miss the tension between them, but he graciously waited until they were seated with their drinks before speaking, "Henry, is everything -"

"Could you - could you please call me 'Allen'?" Detective - _no, Joe. Joe _blinked in surprise, and Henry fidgeted, poking at his coaster. "It's just - I'm trying to reconcile. You-who-I-went-fishing-with and you-who-is-a-cop. It's why, when things are all informal between us, things seem fine, but then you go into work to do your job, and I just - " he gestured helplessly, unable to articulate.

"How is calling you 'Allen' going to help?" Joe...didn't sound disbelieving. He wasn't being sarcastic, he was just trying to work through Henry's thought process. _Well, good luck with that_. Henry huffed a silent laugh, _I'm still working it out myself._

"Let's be honest; you hardly ever used to call me 'Henry' anyway. Only when you wanted something, and felt bad for asking."

"When I was trying to be _sincere," _Joe corrected.

"Yeah, when you sincerely wanted a favor." He was joking; he hoped Joe could tell. "And...it will break down the wall between _Joe _and _Officer -_ sorry, _Detective - _West. So maybe you'll be one person in my head again."

Joe pursed his lips. Henry hoped his follow-up question wasn't an inquiry into Henry's mental health. He knew he had issues; he was working through them. One at a time.

But Joe didn't ask, and instead took a long pull from his lager, before saying, "So, in your head, I'm just 'that guy you went fishing with'?" He raised his eyebrows, "I don't know whether I should be insulted or not, Allen."

Henry relaxed. "Do you know how long it's been," Henry drawled, "since I last went trout-fishing?"

Joe's lips twitched as though unsure whether to smile or not, "Sixteen years?"

Henry shook his head, "Nope. Longer than that. Closer to twenty - autumn of '97."

Joe nodded thoughtfully, "I remember that. That was the time after we tried taking the kids out."

It had been clear from the get-go that neither Iris nor Barry had had the patience, the temperament to really enjoy fishing. However, that hadn't stopped them from begging incessantly to be allowed to join in on Henry and Joe's annual trip to Little Piney Creek, despite being warned repeatedly that they would find it boring. In the summer of '96 Henry and Joe finally capitulated, and the kids, outfitted with child-sized fishing poles and liberally doused with bag-spray, had learned that their fathers right all along (an invaluable life lesson).

"Kids are older now. Do you think they'd want to give it another go?" Henry mused into his drink.

Joe snorted, "Not unless the fish in question were being controlled by some meta-human."

Henry quirked his eyebrow, "So you heard about that guy in Crescent Shore?"

"Mm-hmm. Still doesn't make the top ten weirdest crazy I've seen."

Henry took another long drink, feeling the knot of tension between his shoulder's ease. He thought he could get used to this again.

* * *

><p>AN: Apparently, I am incapable of not doing research, which is why I learned that the national registry of exonerations keeps track of every known exoneration in the United States since 1989. I was curious what sort of evidence they'd need to get Henry exonerated, and decided that parole was more likely, at least to start (also, Rule of Drama). That being said, this is a highly fictionalized account and not meant to be an accurate portrayal of the criminal correction system.

As an aside note, the trend has long been that parole boards would rule against those who insisted they were innocent, on the assumption that such people were in denial, (not unlike early colonial witch trials, where a guilty plea was the only thing that could save you from death). This trend is starting to change, in response to the number of wrongful convictions coming to light - good news for Henry Allen.

For those of you who might have found it improbable that Henry had such a large chunk of text memorized: There is a lot of rote memorization required of being a med student, and Henry has had sixteen years to re-re-read a story that is quite short to begin with (100 pages, give or take). I hope I am not stretching the bounds of credulity by supposing he has large swathes of The Little Prince memorized. Especially since the passage quoted above is relatively close to the beginning.


End file.
